“No.” He twirled a lock between his fingers. “I forbid it. I love every single part of you, don’t cut away a bit of it.”
I smoothed my hands over his bare chest. “Make love to me.”
“Soon.” A wicked grin spread over his face. He reached past me and my eyes widened when his hand landed on a jar of honey and a spoon.
Seriously?
He scooped out a generous spoonful. I expected him to trail it over my skin but instead he landed a heavy dollop of it on my left nipple. I jumped at the cold metal against my skin. The honey tickled and Alfie wasted no time in latching on and suckling me hard.
I threw my head back in pleasure, my fingers dragging through his hair. He came up for air and kissed me.
He reached for the spoon again and scooped out more honey. “Lie back, spread your legs and place your feet on the edge of the counter.”
I did, shoving a basket of croissants out of the way as I leaned back. I rested on my elbows, unable to take my eyes off him as he made a game out of my body. He raised the spoon high over me and with a gleeful look in his eye, he tipped the spoon. The thick honey dripped down my stomach onto my mound and lower, onto my clitoris. The sensation of the heavy liquid spilling over my engorged bundle of nerves was incredible and when his mouth closed over the sensitive nub I couldn’t watch any longer.
I fell backwards and writhed on the counter as he toyed with me. He licked the honey from my entrance, all the way up and sucked me into his mouth again, tasting the sweetness.
He didn’t torture me for long. His fingers slipped inside and he brought me steadily to the highest pitch my body could reach. I cried out with my orgasm, my hands fisting his hair as I ground onto his mouth. I would never get over how easily he could do this to me. My body convulsed as my orgasm waned and he released my sensitive flesh.
“So fucking sweet,” he murmured.
I heard the buckle of his belt and a moment later he plunged inside me. My post-orgasmic flesh rippled over him, I was hyper sensitive and I squirmed on the counter top. His hands found my hips and he pulled me to meet his every thrust. My body went limp, my muscles lax as I gave into his need. I was entranced, hooked on watching this powerful man using my body for his pleasure. His chest heaved with exertion. His muscles bunched and flexed with every powerful thrust.
He came inside me with a yell, his eyes burning into mine with the pleasure of his release. I reached for him and hecollapsed into my arms, my name spilling from his lips. I wrapped my legs around the man I loved and held him to me, trying to convey with my touch the depth of emotion I held for him.
I was lost in him, so completely lost there was no way I was ever getting out. That thought overwhelmed me. That he had ruined me for anything else. There was no way I could ever leave him for any other man, for any other dream, for any other kind of life that didn’t have him in it.
Two
“Lola! You’ve kept me waiting.” Imani’s tone was severe but her eyes were teasing.
Could she tell what I’d been doing all morning while she was waiting? Did I have a smear of honey somewhere?
I followed my mentor into her studio. I’d spent much of the last few years here. I’d studied here, worked here, and now we were prepping for our next big project. Her studio wasn’t what you’d call ‘cosy.’ It reminded me of a space Alfie might have designed for himself. Her studio sported a glass boardroom table and a smaller, also glass, desk.
On the table were four miniature models, our designs and plans on paper next to each. I imagined one of her other students had spent hours getting this ready. That used to be my job.
Imani sat as I studied the models. Her head was shaved smooth, her orange dress a stunning contrast against the ebony of her skin. She sipped her tea, the scent of ginger and lemon heating the cool feel of the room.
“These look fantastic.” I didn’t need to ask her if she was happy with them, I could tell by her face that she was. She was excited too. Imani was a woman always looking for new adventures. Television was a new adventure for her.
She’d been invited to be a judge in a new show about floral sculptures.‘So, it’s like the Great British Bake Off but with flowers?’is what I’d said when she’d first offered me the position as her assistant. For each round in the competition, Imani would be displaying a design of her own to fit the spec given to the contestants. An example of the calibre of work she was looking for. My job was to help design each piece and oversee the construction of it. Imani would have time for filming but little else. I would be the boots on the ground and I couldn’t wait.
The themes were fashion, nature, literature and architecture. I scanned the miniature model of the woman in the peony ballgown I’d designed. The blues moving from blue-black to pale sky as the woman spun with an invisible partner, her dress interspersed throughout with white lilies.
For the nature category, I’d designed an elephant. Instead of grey, I wanted to use ‘loud’ colours; fuschia, turquoise, orange, giving me the opportunity to get creative with flowers like lotuses, hydrangeas and marigolds
For literature, I’d been inspired by Beatrix Potter. I smiled at the miniature model of Jemima Puddleduck, she was charming, made from white and blush pink roses, with a marigold Mr fox prowling behind her.
The final category, architecture, had been the most difficult for me to figure out. The fairytale tower would stand ten feet tall, smothered in mosses and flowers of purple and pink. The projects were going to be a challenge but I was ready.
“Did you get my email about the change in location?” Imani asked.
“For filming? No?”
I started to panic. Changing the location site could throw everything off. Not just because I’d based my routine off that commute but because of the weather and the suppliers available on short notice in the area.
“It’s been changed to a historical site in Kent. That’s where you’re from, I believe?”
